


No Good Deed

by smoakmonster



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Touching, Soulmates, olicity - Freeform, olicity au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being stranded on an island in the North China Sea, Oliver Queen learns that his touch brings death. He can never come into contact with anyone...without guaranteeing another's demise. Fearing he's destined to be alone, Oliver gives himself to his crusade, avoiding human interaction as much as possible, hiding his curse behind a bow and arrow and green leather. Except he can't hide forever. The universe seems determined to test him. And his greatest test comes the day he meets her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies! I'm back with my own version of the soulmate trope, which I started during the SOTY 2016 this month. (GO TEAM OLICITY!) I'm aiming for this story to be around 15 chapters, and I do have an ending already in mind. I plan to have chapters 3 and 4 posted either this week or next week. Thanks and I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue Part 1

 

* * *

 

The night his father’s boat went down, everything changed. As the heavy waves crashed against his worn body and salty water spilled into his lungs, _he_ became changed.

Losing both Sara and his father wrecked him; their deaths tore up his insides the way that storm tore at the yacht. Losing Yao Fei and Shado wrecked him even further. It would take Oliver a month to realize that each of their deaths was indeed his fault, that it was more than survivor’s guilt plaguing every privileged, waking moment. He lived at the cost of his loved one’s lives.

He learned that his touch brought death; it was the price he paid for his own endurance. A bare hand on a shoulder. A brush of a lock of hair. A handshake. Any part of his skin that touched another living creature meant certain demise. It was the only explanation, one which the universe subtly reminded him of over and over.

He tested his theory on Edward Fyers, opting to beat the man instead of relying on the explosives. Fyers succumbed to death at a startlingly rapid rate.

He tested his theory on Ivo, choosing to cut off his air supply, rather than using the gun. Ivo was gone before he’d even started squeezing.

He tested his theory on one of Ivo’s men, bashing his skull with a rock. It only took one sure blow to the temple. He did not miss. He was beginning to think he was incapable of missing.

Oliver Queen no longer required the protection of another living person. He didn’t need any weapons, makeshift or otherwise. He _was_ the weapon.

Oliver also discovered rather quickly that no matter what he did, he could not die. He could not drown–he clocked himself at 12 minutes, holding his breath underwater before the shark attacked him. But even that deep, aching bite could not fully drain his blood. A single touch rendered the ravenous animal unconscious. He ran directly into a hail of gunfire alongside Slade Wilson, and no bullets touched any major organs, only grazing his legs and nicking a few minor veins. Trembling, he raised a gun to his head, wanting this hell to just _end,_ only to find the weapon void of bullets.

Even he could not be so lucky.

The universe was determined to keep him alive, as much as it was determined to use him as an instrument of death. Did the lives he destroyed prolong his own? Was he bound by destiny to forever take and _take_ , until he was the only person left on earth?

He hadn’t meant to test his theory further in Hong Kong, but an accidental touch of a young boy named Akio showed him how truly like a monster he was.

Isolating himself from the world seemed like the best option. He joined the League of Assassins, harnessing his “gift,” as Ra’s Al Ghul called it. He willingly took on every impossible mission, faced any opponent Ra’s considered worthy of competing against the great Al Sahhim, his right-hand invincible puppet. Sometimes he walked away from a battle with more scars, but nothing was ever fatal enough to harm him irrevocably.

His year in the Russian mob forged him into a sharper weapon, while solidifying a growing, gnawing facet of this theory. His power was fueled by emotion. The more angry he became, the faster his assailants perished. At the peak of his physical condition, a single touch rendered his opponent deceased within minutes.

24 hours was the longest anyone survived his touch.

24 seconds was the shortest.

He never got more time, and he never got less.

After five years of nothing but savage death, he grew weary.

When Oliver realized what he could do–how much damage he had already caused with just two bare hands–he became plagued with a new, darker guilt. The guilt of a killer. No righteous act could undo his innumerable wrongs.

But maybe…he could honor his father’s last wishes, as a kind of penance. Maybe, just maybe, he could seek to save lives, even working against the universe’s curse if he had to. Surely the universe owed him that at least.

His five years away had taught him that he could not stop this power, but he could at least control it, maintain it, minimize it to a degree. It took that entire time away before he felt a semblance of control again, before he at last felt confident and comfortable enough in his own skin to return home.

His arrival proved to be his greatest test yet. It was a test against _himself._

The boy that he was died when that boat went down; instead, shrouded in darkness, waiting in a crinkled hospital gown stood a shell of a human. He remained stoic and standoffish, nothing like the man he was before he left. He could tell his mother was more worried than afraid of him. For now. But that needed to change. She _needed_ to fear him. Fear would keep her safe.

The party boy that he was could no longer linger in a crowded club. The playboy that he was could no longer be intimate with anyone, no matter how much he was sorely tempted. The brother that he was could not even hug his sister…ever again.

And so he retreated deep into his crusade, vowing to honor his father’s memory, to right his family’s wrongs–his father’s and his own. He kept his body covered in dark green leather, his hands wrapped in gloves for stealth as much as for safety, using the bow as his only tool. The bow forced him to maintain a dependable distance from his enemies on the streets, constraining his untapped power as much as he knew was possible.

The people of Starling City started calling the man in the green hood a guardian angel.

They were only half right.

He was an angel…an angel of death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue Part 2

 

* * *

 

The night her father left, everything changed. As she listened to her parents argue for the last time–as rough and as loud as the struggle of her own heartbeat in her ears– _she_ became changed.

A vivacious child of seven and three-quarters grew up seven years in the span of about seven minutes, in the amount of time it took a distraught mother to calmly explain that Daddy wasn’t coming home. He had skipped town just a few weeks before her birthday, before their promised trip to space camp, before she’d had a chance to say goodbye.

Even though her mother bravely tried to conceal the pain, the little girl still heard her mom’s bedtime sobs, muffled as they were behind a pillow. And so, the little girl would sneak out of her own bed, tiptoe across the small hallway into the emptier master bedroom, and tuck herself under the covers next to her mom. And every night during the following week, mother and daughter would console one another, wrapped in each other’s strong, comforting arms, washed in each other’s tears.

Felicity wished more than anything she could just make the sharp, stinging pain go away, silently furious with her father for causing them both to feel so abandoned, so helpless…so broken.

The evening he was gone for good, Felicity Smoak lost more than just her father. She also lost the part of herself that believed in fairy tales and happily ever afters. Little did she know that destiny was writing one through her.

It began gradually, in small, simple acts that morphed into dangerous alterations. A broken butterfly wing becoming miraculously mended. A confused robin that had flown into the window suddenly popping back up and soaring away, as though nothing had happened. A scab on a classmate’s knee after a fall on the playground suddenly vanishing…and instead a small scab appearing on her own skin in exchange.

By middle school, Felicity realized that her touch brought healing to any living creature. A quick brush of her skin could undo any physical harm and erase any scar…for the one who touched her. If only the universe had been kind enough to allow her own broken heart to mend.

It didn’t take long to discover that her secret power came with a steep price: everyone else got better, while she slowly got worse and worse.

She tested her theory on her mom, when she burnt her hand trying to cook stir fry chicken. She screamed and cried for almost two hours, until the invisible blister vanished and her own thumb ceased throbbing.

She tested her theory on a stray dog with a limp leg. She couldn’t walk to her physics class the next day.

And once, very foolishly, she tested her theory in a hospital. A random patient in the ICU had her keeled over, _aching_ to empty the contents of her stomach in a matter of minutes. As much as she desperately wanted, _needed_ to throw up, her body couldn’t respond to a sickness that wasn’t technically there. Her sore back and heavy chest mandated that she be put on an IV, though the IV didn’t work. That was the first time Felicity thought she might actually die. But the doctor never got around to pestering her with questions, because she had recovered and escaped before his morning rounds.

Felicity learned very quickly that she could not undo fate entirely, that the universe had a way of course-correcting _through_ her, keeping her foolhardy dreams under control. Every time she removed someone else’s injury or illness–intentionally or not–her own body would bear the burden into completion. The wounds she erased never manifested themselves in a physical way, but the pain was very real and very lasting…persisting as long as the stupid universe deemed necessary.

She clocked 24 hours as the longest she ever had to endure someone else’s suffering. 24 seconds was the shortest. Thankfully, she never got more time, but she also never got less.

While the pain always faded with time, the memory of each and every rehabilitating act lasted as long as the restoration itself. Forever.

Isolating herself from typical young adult social activities seemed best. Becoming a hacktivist was safe and easy. Dying her hair a sharp epony color deterred human interaction even further. Being with Cooper was freeing, because he was never sick and, surprisingly, tended to be cautious…at least, outside their dorm room.

But the night Cooper was arrested, everything changed again. When she went to visit him in prison, she spotted heavy bangs underneath sorrowful eyes and wanted nothing more than to take his tiredness away. She pressed her hand deep into the glass, but to no avail.

Three days later…she learned that Cooper had ended things permanently. And for the first time in years, Felicity cried tears for her _own_ pain, for the loss of yet another man that she loved, for her gift that was also a curse, for the fact that the universe was just cruel enough to limit her power. _Why_ was she allowed to do wonderful deeds, if she couldn’t have what _she_ wanted? She couldn’t even resurrect the dead.

And so she retreated deep into her own heart and her IT cubicle at Queen Consolidated, hiding her ability behind computers, burying herself in wires and keys and paperwork, the only things she could touch with intimacy and not alter destiny…and not risk her own life in the process.

Despite her best efforts, her reputation grew. People at the company said she had a knack for fixing any problem.

They were right, of course.

They just had no idea how precarious her talent could be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver tries to re-enter the land of the living, and has an unexpected encounter.

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed before Oliver had the fortitude…and proper incentive to enter the land of the living. He spent most of his time hiding under a hood and living in a basement, because that was the only way he knew how to operate. And even when he did venture outside the safety of the foundry’s walls, it was always at night. Layers and shadows protected people— _nameless targets_ —from the threat that he was. He didn’t need to tempt fate any more than he already was by returning home.

And yet, apparently Oliver couldn’t hide forever.

As apprehensive as he felt to be seeking assistance from a civilian during the day, exposing himself to more questions and possibilities to literally _run into people_ , Oliver didn’t have much of a choice this time.

The League was after him, slowly pulling strings with his former ties to the Bratva in order to reel him in. Oliver suspected that a preliminary warning had already been issued, letting him know they had found him. Hiring an infamous hitman whose M.O. included bullets laced with curare to stir up trouble in his city was certainly an unusual style of warning but not outside the realm of possibilities. He learned a long time ago not to underestimate his former brotherhood. Ra’s Al Ghul wanted him back…wanted his _talent_ back. Either that, or Ra’s wanted him dead, which was almost laughable considering no method of brutality had ever worked. He bore the scars to prove it.

Even though he’d once managed to convince Ra’s to let him go, somehow Oliver knew their unwritten deal would come to an end eventually. Clearly, if Ra’s couldn’t use him to fuel his own twisted ambitions, he felt it his right to try to strip Oliver of his free will by other means.

But Oliver had a mission to complete, unwilling to answer to any power other than the one always inside him, pushing at the walls of his skin like a caged creature threatening to unleash its fury. More than anything, Oliver was averse to letting Ra’s become his personal marionette master again. Unfortunately for Ra’s, he’d taught Oliver everything he knew, so Oliver was quite familiar with League tactics. As long as he stayed in the public eye, pretending to be Ollie Queen, the elusive prodigal son, soaking in the perpetual spotlight, the League would leave him alone. They operated in the shadows, just as the man under the hood did.

It was for the sake of his mission and his mission alone that Oliver convinced himself to set foot inside Queen Consolidated again. After his mother dragged him to revisit the family company during his initial week home, he intentionally avoided the building…and really any building holding more people than he could count on one hand.

Even though he’d have much preferred finding some local, underground hacktivist group to help him with his computer problem, this was unfortunately his best option at the moment.

On a Wednesday morning, Oliver waltzed with hidden trepidation into his family’s company, carrying a bullet-riddled laptop in hand, courtesy of Deadshot. Everything he’d practiced over the past five years rebelled, his blood screaming with panic, even as he maintained a calm façade. He _hated_ lingering out in the open like this, pushing the limits of even his self-discipline, tipping the scale in fate’s favor. As though fate needed his help. But it was the only way. To hinder the League from coming after him, he had to linger in the light, exposed and vulnerable and desperate. To save the city, he had to risk its very citizens in the meantime. It was like Hong Kong all over again.

 _Just this once_ , he silently vowed. _Just a few hours._ He would not let what happened to Akio and Shado happen here.

Inside the building, faceless figures faded together in a blurry fog. Clinging to the walls, Oliver evaded eye contact, silently projecting the message to anyone who tried to approach him to _not come any closer._ To his relief, almost everyone kept their distance, seemingly more afraid of his presence than he was of accidentally coming into contact with them. Perhaps his mother had warned the staff about her son’s aloof behavior. Or maybe this was just how most employees acted around members of the Queen family. Or maybe prey would always subconsciously run from their predators.

Taking the south elevator to avoid a crowd, Oliver studied himself in the reflective doors, noting the obvious bangs under tired eyes and the stiffness in his left shoulder, where he’d gotten shot yesterday. Hopefully no one noticed that his left arm moved a little less than his right. His skin was paler than it used to be. He hadn’t been outside during the day in...well, he couldn’t remember exactly.

Wearing a long sleeve gray sweater with casual slacks was as close as he would come to being _comfortable_ in this open environment. It had been several days since he’d last worn regular, non-leather attire. The change was nice, refreshing in a way that he rarely experienced these days. Thankfully, the cool October weather disguised his ever-present need to shield his skin from the world. At the last second, he’d opted out of wearing gloves, and instead his free hand twitched incessantly. Seeing himself now, he looked almost…ordinary. Human. Whole. Everything he most certainly was not.

Oliver was pleasantly relieved when his presence went largely unnoticed as he walked the floors of the IT department, passing cubicle after cubicle of ducked heads and racing typists. He paced the entire level it seemed until, finally, at the very end of the last hallway, crammed into what had to be the tiniest room in this department (if not the entire company), he found what—or rather, _who_ —he was looking for.

The office he entered initially jarred him—and not because of the bright sunlight streaming through the blinds or really even because of the tight space. (Though there were closets at the Queen Mansion more spacious than this “room.”) Instead, what grabbed and held his immediate attention was how this remarkable little place seemed...at odds with itself and with the world. Rainbow pastel sticky notes were tacked to every wall. Papers and folders were slightly scattered, laid out across the desk, but almost…arranged, like they had been intentionally segregated into stacks, and then each pile fanned out like an accordion, forming an odd train, serving as a loose barricade. The desk was meant to appear messier than it actually was. And then there was a steaming cup of a tea in a mug that read **_BUT FIRST...COFFEE!_ **

His lips twitched at that.

A workstation shouldn’t appear so inviting, should it?

The name he’d heard Walter and his mother praising the other night bizarrely seemed to match this bright little place.   

“Felicity Smoak?” He said her name so mechanically, like the pleasant syllables passing over his tongue were as mundane to him as the scribbles of coding pinned to the walls.

But when she turned around, her blonde ponytail swirling around her shoulders as a low halo, Oliver was jarred again. Whatever he’d been anticipating from the great Felicity Smoak, _she_ was not it. The way Walter had recommended her skills, Oliver had been expecting someone older. And certainly not someone so...radiant. Out of everything within this gray building, _she_ seemed to clash the most, in her pink top with lipstick to match and elegant glasses that framed her face nicely.

He watched as she plucked a red pen out of her lips and her eyes widened. Was she already afraid of him? She had every right to be. Quickly, he tried his best to put her mind at ease by flashing one of his classic Ollie smiles, a tactic that always seemed to work with the ladies in the past. This particular mask still felt the most... _wrong_. He hated himself a little bit more every time he had to recycle the Ollie Queen persona.

“Hi, I’m Oliver Queen,” he said, offering her the best carefree voice he could muster. He was seriously out of practice using his kind voice.

She hesitated, but then she actually rolled her chair _closer_ to him. “Of course. I know who you are.”

He swallowed deeply. She really didn’t, though. If she truly knew him, she would not look so eager to help. His hand twitched again, more anxious, more demanding.

“I’m having some trouble with my computer, and they told me you were the person to come and see.”

Carefully, he leaned in slightly to set the fragmented computer on the only free space available at her desk. As soon as his hand was rid of the device, Oliver took a definitive step back, crossing his arms abruptly, an act which instantly calmed him; he felt more in control this way, with his exposed skin safely tucked underneath his shoulders. He noticed she waited until he had moved before picking up the device herself.

She was watching him expectantly, so Oliver decided to go with the first excuse that came to his head. “I was at my coffee shop surfing the web, and I spilt a latte on it.”

“Really? Because these look like bullet holes.”

Of course she’d noticed. She obviously wasn’t senseless.

“My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood,” he said casually, as if that explained everything.

When it was clear she didn’t believe him, she merely tipped her head at him, silently challenging him, rather than calling him out on his blatant lie aloud. Oliver couldn’t help the natural, easy smile that came over him. He wasn’t entirely sure which aspect of her behavior he found so amusing. He ought to feel more concerned, but instead he relished the chance, the privilege, to be genuinely amused about anything at all.

"If there is anything that you can salvage from it, I would really appreciate it."

After a quick, annoyed huff and mumble to herself, she told him to have a seat, pointing to the only other chair in the room, tucked in the far corner, as physically far from her desk as possible.

Oliver approached the small chair, with every intent to sit quietly in the corner like a child in time-out. But instead, like an idiot, he found himself picking up the chair and _moving_ it across the room, before planting it foolishly close to her desk chair and slowly sitting down.

She visibly jumped at his sudden presence. “What are you doing?”

She sounded...worried. Was he making her unnecessarily uncomfortable? “I’d like to watch,” he told her, because at least that was the truth. “If that’s okay.”

As if to prove to himself and to her how careful he _could_ be, Oliver slowly leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands tightly in front of him. He winced when lightning shot through his arm, a nerve in his shoulder getting pinched.

Of course she noticed, and her eyes quickly ran up and down, surveying his whole body. “How bad is this neighborhood of yours?” she asked in a gentler, different kind of voice.

Oliver tried to compose his features, keep his expression neutral and blank. “What?”

“I mean, did something _other_ than this laptop get...a latte spilled on it?”

He knew what she was really asking. And he could tell _she_ knew that _he_ knew what she was implying.

Unable to lie to her about his injury for some reason, Oliver simply bit his lips and shook his head. Her look changed, only growing more concerned. Even though she didn’t look convinced, after a moment, she nodded to herself and got to work on the computer.

Oliver couldn’t help but feel that he’d just dodged something more grave than a bullet.

Every second in her presence, watching her type a mile a minute, muttering a language to herself that he didn't understand, Oliver became more intrigued. She seemed like such a paradox. Although her office space was warm and welcoming, she seemed even more reluctant to interact with him than most people, pretending to ignore him at first. Eventually she started asking him questions about “his” computer, and he fudged his way through answers that hopefully made moderate sense. Once she got started, she talked a lot— _babbling_ , she called it, and the word suited her perfectly. She talked with her hands, her bright nails flying in circles, while somehow keeping her elbows tucked close to her body. He watched her careful gestures, mesmerized. After years of avoiding human touch, he could pick out the signs. The way she didn’t maintain eye contact for very long. The way she had tucked herself as far into the corner of her desk as her chair could go. The way her eyes occasionally darted to the door behind him.

Perhaps this was just her method of subconscious self-preservation. Or perhaps there was something else going on here. Either way, Oliver could tell she went out of her way to keep as much distance from him as he kept from her.  

“Does any of this look familiar, Mr. Queen?” she asked, pointing to some schematics that suddenly popped up on the screen.

“Yes,” he lied smoothly. “And please, call me Oliver. Mr. Queen was my father.”

“Right, but he’s dead.” She stopped typing, shaking her head a little. “I mean he drowned—but you didn’t, obviously, or else, how would you be here?” She closed her eyes, laughing once, and he appreciated the short but sweet sound. “I’m sorry. I prattle when I’m nervous.”

“So I make you nervous.”

She visibly gulped, avoiding his gaze. “No! No, not _you_ -you. Just _you_ in general.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, wanting her to continue but unsure how to ask her to.

“I’m not really a people person,” she explained softly.

Oliver grimaced. If only she knew how much those words resonated with him.

Felicity Smoak was clearly flustered by him…but in a way that had nothing to do with his hidden threat, something his ego couldn’t help but enjoy. Most of all, her kind chatter was slowly putting him at ease, making the caged monster feel comfortable, an unfamiliar buzz humming through his veins. Suddenly lingering in the light didn’t feel as dangerous anymore.

Being around someone like her gave him hope.  

But it was a false hope.

Instinct told him to leave now, to not come back, to keep her safe.

On his way out, Oliver’s foot got caught on a fallen neon green sticky note, containing a list written in a simple yet classy cursive.

**_Buy red pens._ **

**_Relearn Gamemonkey Script._ **

**_Find your anchor._ **

He almost turned around and handed the note back to her.

He almost crumpled the note and threw it away.

He almost didn’t care.

**_Find your anchor._ **

While it seemed trivial, something about that last line struck him.

Since the note was dated from three weeks ago, and she clearly had purchased more than enough red pens, Oliver suspected she wouldn’t miss this particular note. Quickly, Oliver tucked the little piece of paper into his pocket for safekeeping...as a memento of his one day pretending to be human...as a reminder of what he could never have, as much as he might crave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind responses to this story so far! I so appreciate the generous feedback. I hope you liked this chapter. Next chapter will be more of Felicity's POV. Thanks as always for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity Smoak doesn’t quite know how to handle meeting Oliver Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi darlings! I'm still here. Thank you all so much for the overwhelming and kind responses to this story so far. I have been blown away. 
> 
> I wish I could promise when the next chapter will be. Hopefully over winter break I can be more vigilant about updating chapters. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this current chapter from Felicity's POV. Thank you as always for reading and commenting!

 

* * *

 

It was a universal truth that people who died tended to stay that way. They weren’t supposed to come back to life. They weren’t allowed second chances. (Her painful past was proof of that fact.) Most of all, dead men certainly did not meander straight into her mediocre office in the middle of the week and ask for help with recovering “latted” computer files or tracking down former Queen Consolidated employees.

Except for one, apparently.

One man was casually interrupting her entire life. The rules didn’t seem to apply to Oliver Queen, and that was terrifying to Felicity Smoak.

When she’d first heard about his miraculous rescue on the news, it had been a mostly insignificant matter. Of course she was happy for the Queen family that he wasn’t dead anymore...or ever. As happy as any employee might be. When she’d barely managed to catch a glimpse of Oliver Queen in person at a distance--a _very_ great distance--the day he made the grand return tour of the company, something akin to curiosity had stirred inside her. Unfortunately, Terry the Giant had chosen to stand _right_ in front of her door, essentially obstructing her view the entire 3.5 seconds Oliver and Moira Queen had visited the lowly IT department.

So she’d resorted to learning what she could about him through her usual powers of the internet. Still, it was one thing to Google Starling City’s own celebrity. It was another thing entirely to have said celebrity pleasantly invade your work space.

Last week, Felicity hadn’t cared one way or the other about Oliver Queen. She had been approximately 100% sure that prodigal-turned-castaway Oliver Queen didn't even know she existed. And then one day, he was just _there_ , nonchalantly ruining everything. Oliver Queen’s sudden presence in her office was throwing Felicity Smoak for the loop of her life. So much for her ambitions of keeping a low profile. 

Not that the problem was entirely his fault

Ever since early October when Felicity had single-handedly dismantled a virus rapidly threatening Queen Consolidated's technical division hard drives (no thanks to her so-called “supervisor”), her name had seemed to spread just as quickly.

Exactly three days after “The Death of Supernova”-- _Terry’s choice of words, not hers_ \--Felicity had been summoned upstairs to Walter Steele’s office.

The entire elevator ride, Felicity had been rattled with nerves, wringing her worn, aching hands, wondering if she was going to be fired for this somehow. God, if her moronic boss had _told_ on her working overtime and _that_ was the reason for her being fired...well, then this company just did not deserve her brain after all.

Armed with a sudden burst of confidence, Felicity had strolled in Mr. Steele’s office, prepared to face the inevitable with dignity. Instead, she'd ended up listing off her skills in a _very_ passionate and unprofessional manner. It was like all rational thought had left her and instead a desperate, pleading little girl had stood in her place, begging to be shown the same value she never could beg her father for, never beg the universe for.  

To make matters so much worse, Felicity was fairly certain an innuendo or two had slipped out in the midst of her rant. (She’s pretty sure she mentioned something along the lines of how it should be “dark in here for us to do this.” Ugh, she would forever be cringing about that one.)

It was possible she had still been suffering from the effects of sleep deprivation, because the firm words Mr. Steele spoke that halted her babble seemed far, far away.

“You’re not being fired, Miss Smoak. You’re being promoted.”

 _Oh_.

For the first time in months, Felicity Smoak had been rendered speechless twice in the span of one week. One, the day she was promoted. And two, the day she met _him_.

Her whirlwind advancement within the company had come right on the cusp of Oliver Queen’s return to it. She’d all but finished moving boxes, when he’d shown up in her new office. _Again._

One accidental stumbling into the smallest corner of Queen Consolidated was an easy coincidence for her to accept. But a second and _third_ time? How had he even found out where she’d moved to? (So she was just across the hall and anyone with two feet or even one foot could find it, but _still_.) Felicity suspected Walter was responsible for sending this man straight into her lap...metaphorically speaking, of course.

Thanks to Walter Steele singing her praises to what seemed to be all staff members between the 13th and 18th floors, Felicity Smoak had also been bombarded with a _lot_ of requests. And while she relished being valued by her company, Felicity remained on edge when strangers wearing QC ID badges seemed to show up out of nowhere, always concerned by how this newfound popularity was going to wreck her plans.

She had to be even more vigilant about protecting herself...protecting others _from_ her.

The more Felicity interacted with individuals outside her usual three or four coworkers, the greater her chances of accidentally touching someone and _healing_ them of whatever ailment they might have at the time...and potentially putting herself in the hospital as a result. Her medical insurance was already ridiculous, even if Queen Consolidated offered great health and dental plans. Still, she quite literally could not afford to grow careless and mess up and have to move to a different city. Again.

Thankfully, the obnoxiously low AC throughout the office warranted her need to constantly wear some kind of sweater or cardigan. She’d once considered purchasing fingerless gloves, but that seemed a bit extreme and too attention-grabbing. Her new, more spacious office also had a window and was located across the hallway, providing her a better, wider vantage point to notice visitors...and out from under the constant over watch of her “supervisor.”

Overall, Felicity remained content as she was, happy with her new, more challenging workload and generally relaxed work life. And she did not need _complications_.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed determined to test her.  

On a quiet Thursday night, Felicity was working on some software updates, chewing on her third bite of lo mein takeout dinner, when Oliver Queen came strutting into her new office like he owned the place. Which, technically, he kind of did. But did he have to look so smug and gorgeous about it? After their odd first encounter--with him being reserved and intentionally vague and her silently challenging his obvious BS excuse with a slight tip of her head--she’d never expected to see him again. Now he seemed to be making popping in and out of her habitat part of his weekly routine. _Oh God, did that sound like what she thought it did?_

Felicity swallowed deeply, nearly choking on a large chunk of chicken teriyaki in the process.

Feeling even more flustered than usual around him, Felicity quickly set down her food and began straightening a few items at her desk, keeping her hands safely occupied. His presence in her office shouldn’t keep startling her like this, sending her heart racing for an entirely different and _wrong_ reason than what usually stretched her nerves around others. Out of all the people on this floor, Oliver Queen was interested in _her--_ or at least, interested in picking her brain and essentially making her his personal internet researcher. Because that’s exactly what her résumé needed.

She was slightly amazed he still remembered what floor she worked on.

Being snarky with him gave her bizarre courage. “And here I was beginning to think my days of being Oliver Queen’s computer geek were coming to an end,” she teased, eagerly surveying him to see what he'd brought for show-and-tell today, but his hands were empty this time.

“Is that your way of saying you miss me?” he teased back, not missing a beat. She could hear the smile in his voice, and that made her finally look up at him, meeting those keen blue eyes once again. How was it possible that his eyes could seem so fierce yet so soothing at the same time?

She allowed herself the luxury of silently staring at him a _little_ longer than what might be considered naturally polite. An odd beat passed between them. And when she realized he was actually waiting for her to answer, she quickly sat up a bit straighter, _desperately_ hoping the dimming blue lights hid her growing blush.

“No,” she answered truthfully, secretly congratulating herself for maintaining eye contact. She certainly did not miss how strange he continued to make her feel, and yet how _drawn_ she was to him at the same time, how her internal organs couldn’t seem to decide whether to do flips or just stop functioning whenever he was around. “But if it works for you, go with it.”

She had not idea where _that_ joke came from. She hadn’t even had time to process that blip on her radar, before the words had just _burst_ out of her. It was like she had no self-control around him. God, was she...is this what _flirting_ with Oliver Queen felt like?

Impossible. And even if she was _accidentally_ flirting with him, there was no way he could be intentionally flirting with her back, right? And yet...

He chuckled warmly, and she couldn't help smiling right back, pleased that her odd banter had the desired effect. She liked the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes lit up a little, the way his shoulders relaxed in a way he so rarely seemed to allow. She was beginning to like most everything about him.

She continued, “Although, your being in here means that you’re probably keeping a boatload of other people away, so I suppose I should be thanking you...”

She stopped, wincing when she realized what her careless use of the word _boatload_ implied, what she was suddenly forcing him to remember. “Sorry. I...I just mean, I don’t mind wasting-- _using--_ my skills... _computer_ skills...to help you out.” She finished with a little huff.

Blue lights or not, Felicity could _feel_ red inflaming her face, only deepening at the fact that Oliver seemed to be having trouble keeping a smile off that ridiculously fine face of his. Oh, why did he have to look so smug and sweet all the time?

“You can thank me by getting through this.” As he whipped a small flash drive of out of his jacket pocket and proceeded to hand it to her, she noticed he seemed to be stretching his arm as far as it would go, so that he didn’t have to move any closer. Probably a good thing he had such long arms. And that was _not_ an observation her brain needed to catalog right now. But she seriously could not help it. So far, everything about him was worth cataloging and storing away for later daydreams.

Felicity slowly reached out to take the drive, barely lifting herself out of her chair, carefully watching to make sure her fingers didn’t accidentally brush his.

Time seem to still, as she stay focused on how _close_ their fingers came to touching. As soon as she had the drive firmly enclosed within her thumb and index, she quickly pulled back. Thankfully, he easily let her go, moving with bizarre grace, seemingly in tune to her movements. 

By the time Felicity brought up the black ops security page, Oliver was already launching into another white lie about how his "bodyguard" had set up the security and that he needed to get through the firewall for a "scavenger hunt." 

Felicity almost snorted.

Thankfully, she was far too distracted by the task in front of her to dispute him. But _really_? Why was he continuing to test her loyalty by concocting these poor excuses, just to get her to help him? There had to be other ways to get what he wanted, other people he could exploit.

And yet, even as she proceeded to  _help_ him, Felicity wondered why exactly she hadn't bothered confronting  him outright, why she continued to let him get away with this. Maybe it was because out of all the people technically qualified to help him with...whatever this was, he had chosen  _her_. Maybe it was because,  despite all the tangible evidence screaming at her to _run_ \--from the way his hand always seemed to be twitching to that black arrow he had her trace-- something inside her also told her to _stay_. She felt like she could trust him, mystery and all.

There was just something about him. Something  _good_.

But did everything have to be a game with him?

“The idle rich are hard to entertain,” he said, and his voice seemed so _loud_ in the silence that she nearly jumped. For one horrible moment, both her heart and her hands froze. Had she accidentally voiced her last thought out loud?

She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined there was a bit of mischief there like always. He sounded a lot more sure of himself when she wasn’t looking at him. He also sounded...a lot closer.

Tentatively, Felicity twisted in her chair, once again encountering his very close, penetrating gaze. He stood _right_ beside her work chair, regarding her in a gentle way that she could honestly say she had no words for. Nervously, Felicity shifted in her chair away from him as far back as she could, but it wasn’t nearly far enough.

“Listen,” he spoke softly, drawing her attention right to his lips. “You get through that, and one of the bottles of wine I’m supposed to win is yours.”

Felicity barely registered the expensive incentive over the pounding of her own heartbeat. Why did he feel the need to be this close to her always? He wasn’t even _that_ close, really, but being within a few feet of anyone was terrifying enough. With him...it was worse, like being wrapped in an electric blanket, safe and yet scary. And the way he was watching her now, wearing a distinct, curious frown...it was like he was asking the universe a question, one she had no idea how to answer.

Something on her face must have given away her silent yes, because then he nodded his thanks in return. When he seemed about to leave, an odd mixture of relief and yearning filled her. She wasn't sure whether she wanted him gone or wanted him here. At the last second, though, just out of the corner of her eye...she noticed his index finger hover over her shoulder...just before the tip of his finger playfully touched the top of her dark cotton cover _once_. So light, so brief, it was like it hadn’t even happened.

Felicity blinked, and then he was walking away, sending her one of his classic, _real_ smiles on his way out the door. But when she happened to glance down, Felicity _thought_ she spotted his hand shaking, the one that had touched her. Though from this distance, she couldn’t tell. As soon as he was gone, she looked at her own shoulder, half-expecting to find it on fire from the way it _burned_. Yet it was a soothing burn, like stepping under a steaming shower, calming her down to her bones.

Not surprising, physically, on the surface she remained unchanged. But underneath, she felt...different somehow. Yet the more time that passed apart from him, the more she began to wonder if she was going a little crazy.

Had he really even touched her?

Or was she so desperate for human contact that she’d imagined his brief but wonderful touch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognize the timing for this chapter as Arrow 1x11. Next chapter will pick up right where we left off from Oliver's POV. 
> 
> I love to read your reactions and speculations! Let me know in the comments :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver wrestles with his new reaction to Felicity, and makes a surprising decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings, I’m back! It’s been a little over a year since I’ve been able to touch this story, so I thank you all for your patience. Now that I’m free of the chains of grad school, I have much more time to devote to updating fics and writing new ones. As promised, this chapter picks up right where we left off in Chapter 4 but from Oliver’s POV. If you need to go back and re-read the earlier chapters as a refresher, I recommend that! 
> 
> Special Thanks To: mel-loves-all for creating a beautiful poster to go with this fic! I love it so much :D
> 
> And thank you, dear readers, as always for your support and love of this story. I hope you like where it is headed. Enjoy!

  

* * *

 

The trip back to the foundry was a blur.

Oliver could barely concentrate beyond the tingling in the tips of his fingers, his skin prickling with fine needles, numbly coming back to life, like the day he’d washed up on shore on Lian Yu.

Except the tingling didn’t stop.

His visit to Felicity Smoak had left him...shaken. Again. The experience was as jarring as it was addictive. Being in her presence was addictive. Yet it was dangerous. He knew this, and still he couldn’t seem to stop himself from coming back to her, fabricating excuses just to see her smile.

Every time he got close to her, he was tempted to...do _what_ exactly? To _touch_ her? Oliver shook his head, wishing he could just as easily shake away these dark, swarming, impossible thoughts. All these years of self-restraint, and one look from her made something new and raw scream inside him to draw closer.

And tonight, he’d come even closer than usual. He’d risked himself and her, all for the sake of what? To be the one to make that special, thoughtful spark reappear behind her eyes? To pretend to feel the warmth of her skin seeping through her clothes? To experience the brief, false sense of human connection?

Even though she was protected from his curse by the thick fabric of her clothing, he was still pushing the limits of his control and fate.

Yet he _had_ felt warmth when he’d touched her shirt--though not in the way he’d been expecting, not in the quick, immediate contact of his fingertip. Instead, shortly after, as he’d begun pulling his hand away, an unnameable, sweet warmth had began radiating along his arm, from the very tip of his finger up to his shoulder, stretching all the way to his chest, to his labored heart. His veins seemed to grow, their fire pressing up against the walls of his skin.

It was like being burned but without the pain.

Even as he moved away, his whole body singed with it.

Oliver’s arm pulsed with a low, soothing burn, and the hand that had made contact with Felicity Smoak’s blouse seemed engaged in a civil war. His hand felt both numb and alert; his skin stretched like a balloon, even as his reflexes reacted sharp and true, as he weaved his motorcycle through traffic.

Yet as he neared his father’s old factory, and got further and further away from his family’s company, the sensation began to change. As the basement door slammed closed behind him, the searing, throbbing fever became less soothing and more...itching, agonizing, like the flame consuming him from the inside out was also changing him, searing the walls of his heart _._

He came to a halt in the center of the basement, his ragged breaths echoing off the high ceiling, filling in the silence that had never felt so empty before. Impulsively, Oliver slipped his shoes off and let the cold cement soak into the soles of his feet, calming his racing heart.

But it wasn’t enough. It was still too hot.

He wasn’t sure what he needed. He just knew he needed it to stop.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted, and that was terrifying.

Oliver ripped off his shirt and began beating the dummy. With singular focus, he poured himself into the act; he drove himself numb with it. And still the fire lingered inside him, always throbbing, always gnawing.

But no matter how hard he continued to pound into the wood, still his thoughts wandered.

What had he been thinking, touching Felicity’s shoulder like that with his index finger? Even if it had only been for half a second, it was half a second too long, more physical contact than he’d allowed himself _weeks_. The barrier of clothing usually posed no problem for keeping those he touched shielded from his hidden, terrible power.

So why was this happening to him now? How could one touch be responsible for _this_?

The instant Oliver had left Felicity Smoak’s office today, he’d known something was different. He’d felt _different_ . Even different from the time he’d first met her. He’d felt _warm_ for the first time since...since before he’d left for sea five years ago.

It had to have been from touching her.

She was the only uncommon factor in his regimented lifestyle.

And yet, it didn’t make any sense. Nothing made sense after meeting Felicity. His body was reacting to her in a way he’d never reacted to anyone. And it wasn’t just that she was a woman and he was a man--though he suspected that was part of it. It wasn’t just that his inner power wanted to prey upon the innocent. It was something else. There was just something about _her_.

And there was a part of him...a bigger part than he wanted to admit...that craved finding out the answer. To go back to her.

He knew he shouldn’t push himself like this, testing the limits of his control every time he entered her office, but it seemed he simply couldn’t help himself.

Having another archer in town (an assailant outfitted in League attire, likely one of Ra al Ghul’s puppets) meant he was traipsing into Felicity’s IT cubicle nearly once a week. He wasn’t sure what it was about that particular room that had such a calmly effect on him, but he was beginning to think it had very little to do with the dim lighting or the heat of a hundred computer processors or the constant stream of air freshener to compensate for the dust.

No, his attention remained fixated on the blonde woman with trusting eyes and bright lipstick. Of all the people at the office, it had to be someone like her, a sweet, innocent person, that provoked his cruel gift. He liked watching her work. But if he were really to be honest with himself, Oliver simply liked watching _her_.

“I take it by the smile on your face you had a good day.”

Oliver halted his workout, heaving in the silence. He hadn’t realized that he’d been smiling. Or was Dig simply teasing him?

The voice of John Diggle was usually a source of strength and wisdom, but Oliver detected a hint of mockery this time. It was enough to have him stopping up short. Oliver tried to maintain his usual air of aloofness, but if there was still a hint of a _remnant_ of a smile on his face as he turned around, well...that just couldn’t be helped.

The look on Dig’s face told him he wasn’t disguising his feelings as much as he’d hoped.

A few weeks ago, against his better judgment, Oliver had brought his assigned “bodyguard” John Diggle down into the foundry basement, his operational lair, and revealed his own secret identity in the process. Tactically, he’d had no choice. During a fight with Deadshot on the roof of charity event building, Diggle had gotten caught in the crosshairs and had taken a literal bullet for him, one laced with curare.

He need not have wasted the energy. Oliver had been hit multiple times with curare bullets over the years, and none of them had resulted in permanent damage, though he still bore a few extra scars as a result. Those were among the few times he counted his curse a blessing.

Thankfully, an island herb recipe courtesy of Yao-Fei was all it took to restore Dig’s health and save the honorable man’s life.

And that night, Oliver had told Dig everything.

Well, _everything,_ minus all the graphic pieces of his five years away and the critical part about why he could never touch another human being.

Maybe Oliver really was suffering in a lapse in judgement since he’d come home, because logistically he knew the danger in working in such close proximity to someone, how great the likelihood became for them to literally run into each other.  

And yet, though he’d never come right out and said it, Oliver suspected that Dig had guessed what the problem was--or at least, he was close enough in his own suspicions.

Dig always kept a respectful distance in public. And even when it was just the two of them down here, whether sparring in stick-fighting or discussing whose name to cross off on the list next, Oliver kept himself almost completely covered most of the time. Rarely did he remove his gloves. It was only when he worked out alone that he allowed himself the _luxury_ of taking off a shirt at least, letting his body perspire properly.

They never engaged in direct hand-to-hand combat, and thankfully Dig never questioned him about his vigilant need to keep his distance, emotionally as well as physically. Dig never required an explanation the way Oliver silently demanded one from him. As a fellow soldier, Dig seemed to understand that there were just some things one could not share or give voice to.

They seemed to get along well, which eased Oliver’s mind greatly. As reluctant as Oliver had been originally to invite anyone into this crusade alongside him and risk their lives in more ways than one, bringing in ex-military and ex-“bodyguard” John Diggle had been a wise decision in the end. Dig was astute and a skilled fighter, and it was good to have someone watching his back in the field, someone he could trust. Even if Oliver didn’t necessarily _need_ someone watching him.

Still, Oliver could never afford to get too close. He’d lost too many people he cared about already. Always, in the font of his head and in the back of his head, he reminded himself that he could be the cause.

Oliver decided to ignore Dig’s knowing and amused look and quickly toweled himself off before throwing his shirt back on. The agonizing heat from before had faded. But the faint pulse was still there, pressing against the walls of his skin, vibrating inside his veins, like the loud club music above their heads.

Trudging over to the computer, a spark of neon green caught his attention, as it did every time he came down here. The green sticky note was taped to the corner of one of the monitors, a short reprieve from the darkness. Tilting his head, Oliver studied the handwriting he’d memorized ages ago.

**_Find your anchor._ **

Her words written in haste still pulled at him, like he was the ship and she was the shore. Without her, he felt adrift. In her presence, he felt torn. And now...he was more confused than ever.

What did those three words mean? What did they mean to _her?_ And what did it mean to feel this way after just a brief touch of her clothing?

As a rule, Oliver rarely allowed himself to _feel_ anything. Feelings--any feelings--were an unwelcome distraction and could lead to anger, which might enhance the chances of his killing someone, accidentally or otherwise. When he was on the streets of Starling City, Oliver killed only out of necessity, taking out criminals with cold, strategic apathy.

One thing was abundantly clear: as much as he was helplessly drawn to Felicity Smoak, he should not linger in such close proximity to her again. Tonight he’d pushed himself too far, and maybe his body’s severe reaction to her was a warning. A warning he should heed. He knew what the right choice was where she was concerned. If he cared about her safety at all, he’d vow never to set foot in her office again. And yet...he found he just couldn’t make that kind of commitment. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Putting off the inevitable, Oliver forced himself to push any thoughts of Felicity Smoak to the side, wanting to bury his own reactions to her deep, deep down. He needed to focus, and she needed protection. She was safe from him as long as he didn’t go near her again; and he was safe from her as long as his mind didn’t dwell on her too long.

“Any progress?” Oliver nodded to the overnight search that was running to locate the Dark Archer, using the latest intel Felicity had acquired for him.

“Nothing, man,” Diggle replied.

Oliver’s jaw tightened. It seemed this week was full of dead ends.

“How are you doing with the next name on the list?” asked Diggle, moving closer but still maintaining a safe distance.

“I’m working some leads.” Nervously, inexplicably, Oliver’s hand twitched at his side.

“You? Or that pretty blonde girl from the IT department?”

Oliver shot Diggle a glare. “She said she’d called when she had something.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hoping to avoid Dig’s inquiry for as long as possible, Oliver glanced back at the screen, wishing for a distraction, itching to do _something._  Sitting around waiting for answers was driving him crazy and making it near impossible to ignore the recent pulsing inside him that never seemed to abate.

Suddenly, a piece of news flashed across the second monitor.

A reporter began cautioning viewers that the police suspected a new addictive drug was on the streets and was landing citizens in the hospital in a matter of hours. The name of the drug was Vertigo. Perfect.

 

* * *

  

Oliver nearly stumbled out of the elevator when it stopped on the thirteenth floor of Queen Consolidated.

Neither his meeting with Alexi Leonov as an aloof Bratva Captain nor the meeting with the Count as spoiled billionaire Oliver Queen had gone as planned.

He’d sought out his former Bratva connections only as a means to an end, and he’d played the part of the callous, vicious brother-in-arms, all the while tamping down the bile that rose to his throat when a helpless, obviously tortured prisoner had been dragged in front of him. A pawn caught in the sick game of his manipulative former family.

_I have heard you have extraordinary talents, Mr. Queen. I would like to see for myself. Kill this man for me, and I will believe your interest in our organization is genuine. And then I will arrange a meeting with The Count._

The Bratva, much like the League, never did anything without asking favors in return. It was part of the reason Oliver had avoided calling in any favors of his own, saving his connections to Anatoly for a special occasion, a rainy day. Drug Lords infecting his city and causing highly addictive Vertigo to make its way straight into his sister’s bedroom...he’d say right now it was pouring.

Of course Oliver had gone to see Alexi prepared, his body covered in a thick, canvas jacket and his hands shielded in gloves as he “snapped” the helpless man’s neck in one quick, sure motion, all the while Alexi watched on with a suspicious eye. Unfortunately for Alexi, Oliver knew how to knock a man unconscious and to the untrained eye make it seem like he was actually dead.

Alexi had looked a little disappointed by how quick and painless a death he issued. _I had expected something a little more...unusual._

Oliver had merely huffed, feigning annoyance. _I haven’t the temperament at the moment for my other...ability. We could have been here all day._

Whereas Oliver constantly tried to reign back his power and only unleash it when absolutely necessary, the Bratva liked to make people suffer. For fun. They used their false sense of power to prey on the weak.

The same was true of the Count, the rotten, devious criminal who’d had the gall to stab him with whatever toxic drug concoction he’d cooked up.

That was why Oliver was here now, even after he’d half-heartedly promised himself _not_ to re-enter his family’s company. He needed an antidote. Starling City needed an antidote. And there was only one person smart enough, whom he trusted enough, to help him get the job done.

“Hey man, we need to get you to a hospital.” Diggle grabbed his upper arm over his sleeve. Apparently he wasn’t moving with as much stability as he thought. The whole hall was fuzzy and painfully bright and _loud_. It was like the worst hangover of his life.

“No,” Oliver answered gruffly, shrugging off Dig’s grip and throwing his partner a firm look.

Dig just shook his head and whispered, a little indignantly, “Oliver, God knows what was in that drug. It could be causing permanent damage.”

His feet skidded to a stop. The way he said it...Oliver wasn’t sure if he was implying _mental_ damage.

But before he could grill Dig further, his ears picked up her voice.

The moment he saw her, the itching he’d so diligently, patiently packed away into the recesses of his mind came back in full force.

Yet as he neared her, the heat inside him grew more soothing, reminding him of the moment he’d met her. Standing in the same room as her again after mere _days_ of not seeing her, Oliver could no longer fathom how he thought he was going to manage a lifetime of resisting her allure. She was an addictive drug all on her own, and yet she was also an oasis. A mirage. Something to hope for. Something unattainable.

As he stopped just outside her personal space bubble, at _last_ , the burning ceased. He still felt warm, but it wasn’t agonizing like before. Or maybe that was just the drugs spreading through his system, spiking up his fever.

He tried to keep his voice friendly. “Felicity. Hey. They said you’d be up here.”

As she spun around, he caught a faint whiff of her pleasingly floral perfume.

Felicity eyed him up and down in that skeptical, cautious way of hers, like he was both a puzzle to be solved and a promise to be fulfilled. “You look like something the cat dragged in--not that there are cats in this building. Well, once a cat did get in but a guard tased it. It smelled like fur and static in here for like a week.”

She was babbling again, and it was too bad he wasn’t currently in a better mood to appreciate it. His brain was throbbing, beating against his skull like a hammer, not to mention the painless _awareness_ vibrating against his skin, something he’d been constantly feeling since the day he made the wonderful mistake of touching her blouse. Did she feel it too?

He squinted against a sudden burst of sunlight that snuck through the blinds. At the moment, he was having trouble telling which was causing his vision to blur and his heart to kick into a higher gear: the drugs in his bloodstream or standing this close to Felicity Smoak.

“Would you mind stepping away from the window for a moment? I have a little bit of a hangover.” He tried keeping his tone moderate, but knew he sounded strained, even in his own ears.

Thankfully, Felicity kindly obliged, moving around him at a wide radius. “Sounds like you need a Bloody Mary and a pretzel, not the IT department.”

He turned slowly, keeping his body facing hers, following her careful movements, the way her feet glided in those heels like they were merely an extended appendage. Was he imagining things, or was there something about being near her that somehow made the effects of the drugs feel less daunting, less oppressive? His joints didn’t feel as trapped the longer he stood next to her.

But he couldn’t linger here forever. Scrambling, and with his brain functioning at half-capacity at best, Oliver spouted out another lie, not really knowing where he was going with it until the words were already straying out of his mouth. “Actually, my buddy Kevin is starting an energy drink company. He says it’s fantastic for curing hangovers.” He could practically feel Diggle eyeing him as he pulled the syringe out of his jacket pocket. “But I’m very particular about what it is I put in my body.”

Felicity briefly eyed the syringe and then crossed her arms, and the little bit of self-awareness he was still managing to carry with him couldn’t help but relish the way she glanced over his body appreciatively. “I’ve noticed,” she blurted before slamming her eyes shut with a cringe, her shoulders going tense. “I said _not_ noticed, right?”

Despite everything--his drug-induced haze, his worry about Thea, the taut, aching strain of every single muscle in his body--Oliver released a breathy chuckle at the way her cheeks bloomed with a beautiful blush. Was it wrong the way her uneasy attraction put him at ease? Oddly, it helped, knowing that he wasn’t alone in his struggled reactions to her.  

“I’m trying to find the secret recipe. Could you please do a spectro analysis of this sample and find out exactly where in the city it’s made?”

Tentatively, he held out the syringe to her, blinking rapidly, keeping his eyes wide to make sure their fingers didn’t accidentally brush as she took the object from him.

Within seconds of studying it, though, Felicity quickly bounced back from bashful attraction to skeptical IT girl. “If it’s an energy drink, why is it in a syringe?”

He blinked. “I ran out of sports bottles.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence passed between all three of them. Oliver definitely felt Dig’s eye roll from behind him, and Felicity looked like she was struggling to hold back one of her own. She clearly didn’t believe him, and who could blame her? And yet, ever the faithful, loyal employee, he knew she was going to help him anyway.

The expectant relief at her sudden absence didn’t come. Instead, as she walked away, the pulsing itching slowly returned.

“Your BS stories are getting worse,” muttered Dig on the way back into the elevator.

“Well aware.”

His hand started twitching again, too. Everything was worse. Everything would remain worse until he figured out what exactly Felicity Smoak was doing to him.

 

* * *

  

One week later, the Dark Archer bringing a gun to an arrow fight was also not something he’d been expecting.

In the League, warriors always fought by a code of honor. Apparently Ra’s al Ghul’s puppets were growing desperate.

Almost as desperate as he was _now_...to keep himself alive.

On shaking legs, Oliver tried to carry himself down from the rooftop, back to his motorcycle in the alley, but he only made it as far as the fifth floor parking garage. Heaving, he leaned against a cold concrete pillar to rest as he tried to come up with a plan before he lost consciousness. Already, he could feel himself weakening, his outer vision blurring, losing too much blood too quickly, the blood spilling out uncontrollably from the gaping hole in his chest, perilously close to his heart.

He wasn’t sure if this was his end at last, but he’d never felt this way before; he’d never felt so _drained_. He could sense the way his organs were shutting down one by one, conserving energy; his breathing was becoming more heavy, more constricted. This wasn’t like any of his other wounds.

As if it knew, a terrible shudder rushed through his heart. Had Ra’s finally cracked the secret to killing him? Had he armed his assassins with a weapon even more deadly than Al Sah-him himself? Was it too late for him?

Even so, he couldn’t admit defeat. Not yet. Not until he had nothing left to give.

His phone had gotten destroyed in the fight, so he had no means of contacting Diggle. And yet, as he glanced across the parking lot and his eyes latched onto a bright red car with a familiar license plate, a faint smile pulled at his lips. It seemed the universe had decided to offer him one last gift. If he was finally going to die, at least it would be in friendly company.

Grateful that the late hour hid his cries of pain, Oliver hobbled across the parking lot and managed to shove himself into the backseat of the Mini Cooper, careful not to set off the car alarm.

He just had to hope she wouldn’t remain at the office too much longer.

It was dangerous going to her like this, especially stowed away in what had to be the tiniest car in existence, increasing the proximity between him and another human being. But he was too worn to come up with another solution. And, selfishly perhaps, he ached to see her...one last time.

He heard the soft click of heels before he saw her at the driver’s door. And senselessly his heart beat a little faster, wasting precious blood, pumping with eager anticipation at the sight of her.

She gasped when she saw him--or rather, when she saw the hood.

He hated himself a little for frightening her so much. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Felicity.”

“H-how do you know my name?” she breathed, her voice tight with apprehension.

Slowly, and with pained effort, Oliver lowered the hood. “Because you know my name,” he blew out. It was getting harder to talk, to breathe deeply enough to form words, to keep his voice calm and steady. He didn’t have much time.

“Mister...Oliver.” Felicity shook her head. “Oh, wow. Everything about you just became so unbelievably clear.”

She seemed to give herself a moment to recover from the shock before her eyes wandered down and locked with his chest and a new shock settled in. “You’re bleeding,” she observed, and he was surprised at how controlled her voice sounded now, like seeing him as the Hood was more startling than watching someone bleeding to death.

He huffed, half-amused, half-impatient. “I don’t need to be told that.”

“I need to get you to a hospital.”

For the average citizen, yes, that would be the appropriate course of action. But Oliver Queen was absolutely not the average citizen. After all, he couldn’t very well risk asking for help like... _this_. As the hood. As himself. Endangering hundreds of lives just by entering the building.

As she was turning away to start the car, he urged with a wheeze, “My...my father’s old factory in The Glades.”

She frowned, and had he _not_ been bleeding out in the backseat of her car, he might have taken the time to appreciate the adorable little furrow forming between her eyebrows. “No, y-you need a doctor, not a steelworker.”

“Felicity…” he begged, his voice croaking with exhaustion. “You have to promise me that you are gonna take me to my father’s factory and nowhere else.”

She hesitated, her astute eyes perusing him one last time. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, I promise.”

He sighed with relief and let himself collapse against the seat and rest. Like a stray, wounded animal, he took comfort in the fact that if this was indeed the end for him, then at least he was going to die with her.

“Something tells me blood stains are not covered under my lease,” she muttered as she pulled away.

Felicity kept talking the entire ride there, grumbling about the inconvenience of traffic lights, which was good. It would keep her distracted if... _when_ the worst should happen to him. He liked the sound of her voice. He might have smiled if he hadn’t been so worn.

Just before he slipped under, he remembered with a start. He had to warn her. Blinking rapidly, he tried to tell her. “Felicity…” he breathed, struggling to form the words. “Don't touch…”

As he fell back and his eyes fell shut, his hand shifted, trying to reach for that little crinkled neon green sticky note, still tucked inside his jacket pocket from where he’d stashed it there a few days ago.

His hand never made it to the pocket.

As the darkness surrounded him, the last thing he heard echoing off the walls of his personal cavern was her voice, like a beacon in the night.

_Stay with me, Oliver._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope the wait has been worth it. I am aiming to post chapter updates on a more regular basis (maybe every 2-3 weeks) and actually finish this fic this year. 
> 
> Also, as you may have noticed, the plot in this fic does parallel the show canon; however, I am writing a much simpler/more condensed version. I hope this does not confuse anyone. The reason for this is purely to speed things along and keep the main story (i.e. the fun SOULMATE stuff) moving forward.


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